


Target Practice

by cybercandy



Series: Desert Songs (Killjoys Verse) [2]
Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), My Chemical Romance
Genre: Blow Jobs, D/s, Gun Kink, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Unnegotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-02-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 19:35:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1163639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cybercandy/pseuds/cybercandy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s always had a thing for cowboys, for guns, for gunfights, but it used to be safely confined to watching old western on TV and, later, jacking off to pictures he found on the internet (illegal sites, not the ones run and sanctioned by BL/I). If someone would have told him back then that one day he’d be holding a gun, that he'd be involved in actual fights, he’d just laughed at them. But this is what he does now, and until an hour ago he thought he had it under control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Target Practice

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt
> 
>  
> 
> _Jet/Ghoul, gun kink, rayguns & blowjobs_

Gerard’s face is so close to Frank’s head that he can feel his breath on his skin, his fingers twisted tight into the front of Frank’s dirty shirt.

“WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING?” His voice is shrill, spit spraying into Frank’s face. 

“I wasn’t... I didn’t... I wasn’t thinking,” Frank stammers. Gerard pulls him closer, and up, making Frank stand on his tiptoes, before letting go and giving him a hard shove. Frank stumbles, staggering backwards until he hits the hood of the Trans Am. 

“You SHOT me, you fucking NUTCASE!” Gerard’s face is red, mouth twisted in anger. He’s clutching his arm just below the shoulder where Frank’s ray gun beam has charred the fabric of his jacket. 

It’s only a graze. 

Gerard’s not hurt. 

That doesn’t mean he’s not livid. Frank can feel the anger radiating off him like heat from a bonfire.

“I didn’t mean to... I’d never…,” Frank says meekly, looking intently at the dust on the tips of his shoes and not at Gerard, who’s pacing up and down in front of him. The hood of the Am is pushing into Frank’s thighs, the sun-heated metal is burning the palms of his hands, but he doesn’t move. He silently wishes Gerard would just lash out, a bruise for a bruise, pain for pain, easy and quick, and they’d be done. Anything but demanding to know _why_ Frank’s done what he did.

“What happened, Ghoul? Just give me a reason, some kind of explanation. You’re not usually such a bad shot,” Gerard sighs exasperatedly. Frank looks up, right into Gerard’s eyes and takes a deep breath, but he can’t make the words come out, can’t tell Gerard what’s going on, he just _can’t_. He swallows hard and looks at his shoes again. 

Of course there’s an explanation. It’s just that Frank has serious doubts that _I accidentally shot you because I got so turned on watching you shooting your gun that I couldn’t see straight_ is something he should share with Gerard. Or anyone in the world for that matter. 

He’s always had a thing for cowboys, for guns, for gunfights, but it used to be safely confined to watching old western on TV and, later, jacking off to pictures he found on the internet (illegal sites, not the ones run and sanctioned by BL/I). If someone would have told him back then that one day he’d be holding a gun and be involved in actual fights he’d just laughed at them. But this is what he does now, and until an hour ago he thought he had it under control. That it wasn’t a problem. According to latest evidence, the one that’s standing right in front of him, panting, hands clenched into tight fists, he very much hasn’t.

“I’m sorry…,” he whispers, hearing his voice break.

“I really _liked_ this jacket,” Gerard pouts, tugging at the hole in the fabric. Frank exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding and lets himself relax a bit. Gerard bitching about ruined clothes is something he can deal with. Ruined clothes can be fixed.

“I’ll get Princess to have a look at it next time I see him. He’s good with needles” he offers, shooting Gerard a hopeful look.

“Yeah... milkshake. But this - this isn’t over yet, Ghoul. Get in the fucking car before the sun fries the remainder of your brain,” Gerard says and walks over to his side of the car. Frank pushes himself away from the car and rubs his burning hands on his jeans. He can almost hear the sigh of relief from the backseat, where Mikey and Ray have been hiding while Gerard dressed Frank down, when he slinks into the seat next to Gerard.

No one says a word for the rest of the drive. Ray and Mikey pretend to sleep while Frank just stares out of the window. By the time they get to the diner Gerard has calmed down and the next morning everything is back to normal.

Well, almost. 

They’re outside in the shade, trying to escape the stifling midday heat. Gerard’s got a new plan to undermine the authority of BL/I, talking extensively about paint-bombs and colourful murals. Ray’s marking recent sightings of Drac patrols on their battered map and Frank’s soldering contacts to the timer of a bomb. It’s all good until Mikey joins them and starts checking his gun. Very carefully, very thoroughly, very thoughtfully, checking his gun, long fingers moving purposely over the body to look for cracks and damages in the material, testing settings and checking the battery level. And if that isn’t enough, as if Frank isn’t really spectacularly hard already, Mikey starts polishing the metal with a rag in long, even strokes. Frank knows he should look away, save whatever is left of his dignity, but his eyes are being drawn to Mikey’s gun like a moth to the flame. It’s only when Ray gives him a nudge that Frank realises Gerard’s stopped talking and is looking at him expectantly.

“Do you think you can rig that up, Ghoul?” Gerard asks, not for the first time if the tone of his voice is any indication. Frank drags his eyes away from Mikey and towards Gerard’s face and goes, “What?”.

“The set-up I’ve been talking about for the past 10 minutes, can you do that?” Gerard says.

“Um... probably... I, um, wasn’t listening.” It’s probably just Frank’s paranoia but he could swear he sees Mikey smirk. Gerard just stares.

“Good to know you’re that interested in what we’re doing,” he huffs and stalks away.

“What the hell is up with you?” Ray asks softly when Gerard’s out of earshot.

“Dunno... I just... dunno,” Frank mumbles, trying to will his erection to subside so he can get up and disappear to a place where there are less guns. And less people cleaning guns. And maybe a bit of privacy, so he can jerk off and wait for the ground to swallow him up.

He needs to get laid, that’s what it is.

Which is why, when Mikey announces that he’s going to a rave in the outer zones, he says, “I’m coming with you.” 

They’ve been to raves before, back in their old life, back in Battery City, but what materializes in front of Frank’s eyes like a fata morgana after 2 hours of speeding down empty desert roads on Mikey’s motorbike is nothing like it.

This is not some warehouse just outside the city limits, tolerated by BL/I so their worker drones can get their kicks under the watchful eyes of the corporation. He knows now that even the runners he’d seen there were background and health checked to make sure they didn’t pose a threat, allowed in to provide distraction and maybe a willing body for those looking and able to pay.

 _This_ is a squat party, there are no city kids, no health checks, no security, no cameras, no charge at the door, no bar, not even a fucking toilet. It’s an old, half fallen down factory with a battered, cobbled-together sound system and haphazardly installed lights. It’s makeshift, grimy and dirty just like the zones. There are runners, crash queens and motorbabies everywhere. Some of them are here to make money by selling moonshine, drugs or their bodies, but most of them are here to have fun. 

To get fucked up and to get fucked.

Frank watches as Mikey types in the code that primes the electronic lock connected to the engine, green light turning red when he’s done. It means that the unlucky bastard who manages to hotwire his bike will be blown to pieces after a mile or two by the explosives Frank has rigged up to the seat if he fails to spot and disable the bomb in time. When it comes to his bike, Mikey is surprisingly vengeful.

“Ready?” Mikey asks.

“Yeah!” Frank grins. He’s just about to wander off when Mikey grabs his hand and presses a pill into his palm.

“Have fun, Tumbleweed,” he says with a wonky smile and gives Frank a pat on the back. Frank opens his fingers and looks at the yellow and black striped pill. He’s got no idea what’s in it or what it’ll do, but Mikey always had the best shit back in Battery City and Frank doubts that has changed. He needs something to wash it down with, though, so he puts it into the pocket of his jacket and makes his way into the venue.

The building is stuffy, loud and absolutely packed. Frank gets a can of what presumably is beer from one of the vendors, washes down the pill and wanders around while he waits for the drugs to kick in. 

An hour later Frank’s high as a kite in the rainbow-colored sky and swimming in an ocean of sweaty, dancing bodies. He’s grinding his hips against a pretty, barely legal motorbaby with a short skirt and a minuscule top. She doesn’t push his hand away when he slides it around her middle and she follows without objection when he grabs her hand to lead her away from the dancefloor. They fuck on the floor in one of the rooms at the back of the venue, quick and dirty, he doesn’t know her name and he doesn’t want to. When they’re done she just gets up, smoothes down her skirt and walks away. 

Frank straightens out his clothes and heads outside for a smoke. It’s a clear, crisp night, and there’s a hum of voices in the air. Small fires are dotted around the building, sparkling like fireflies in the black desert night, and people have gathered around them, singing and chatting. He sits down with a few runners, but he’s too wired, got too many chemicals circulating in his blood, to stay out here for long. The night’s young, Mikey always stays till the end, and the heavy thump of the bass is calling him. Inside the atmosphere has changed, the people still around are high and on the prowl and it doesn’t take long for Frank to get lucky for a second time. This time it’s a guy, and this time it’s Frank that gets fucked, just as fast, just as dirty, face against the wall and jeans pushed down to his knees.

The sun has already started to rise when Frank stumbles outside again, blinking into the orange light, the remainder of his buzz fading away in the morning chill. Mikey’s already waiting for him, leaning against the bike, smoking, sunglasses covering his eyes. Frank gratefully takes a drag of the offered nicotine stick and squats down next to the bike. Now that he’s not moving anymore he can feel sleep looming behind his eyes and exhaustion weighing heavy in his bones. 

“Had fun?” Mikey asks.

“Yeah…,” Frank smiles. “You?” Mikey just nods and kills the last of the cigarette.

“Take this, don’t want you nodding off on me on the drive home,” he says and hands Frank another pill, small and red this time. 

Frank wants to object, wants to sleep, but they’ve still got the 2 hour drive back ahead of them, so swallows the pill and waits for Mikey to get the bike ready.

The sun’s high in the sky when they get back to the diner. Frank tries his best to ignore Gerard’s disapproving stare when he slouches past and sits down in the shade behind the building. He’s exhausted but he won’t be able to sleep just yet. All he can do is ride it out. Mikey flops down next to him, legs drawn up, head leaning back against the wall.

Gerard gives them a look and draws in a deep breath, no doubt gearing up for a lecture on how drugs are bad and they didn’t escape BL/I’s clutches to put chemicals inside their bodies again. Frank’s heard him talk to Mikey when he’d slunk back into the diner, pale and with dark rings under his eyes, a few weeks ago.

“Cut it, Poison, we know,” Mikey says. Gerard opens and closes his mouth like a fish out of water.

“You know that…,” Gerard tries again.

“Yeah,” Mikey cuts him off. Gerard shoots Mikey a dirty look. Mikey conquers by raising his eyebrows. Finally, Gerard shakes his head and goes back inside.

“Thanks, Kobra” Frank says softly. Mikey just smiles and puts his arm around Frank’s shoulders.

 

That night Frank sleeps for 12 hours straight. He’s still a bit hung over when he wakes up, but for the first time in weeks there’s no tension in his body, just the sated feeling of a good night and sex. 

He still fucking rises when he catches a glimpse of Gerard absentmindedly running his fingers over his gun while he’s studying the map he’s got spread out on one of the tables in the diner.

“You alright?” Gerard enquires when Frank ducks into the booth, hoping the table will hide the bulge in his jeans.

“Yeah, just... tired,” he mumbles and of course Gerard takes that as his cue to launch the sermon Mikey made him bite back the day before. And for once Frank’s actually happy about getting a lecture as it gives him time to get his dick under control. Which works for exactly as long as he doesn’t look at Gerard’s hand on the gun.

“Are you sure you’re alright? You’re not getting ill, are you?” Gerard asks skeptically when Frank moans and buries his face in his hands.

“Positive,” Frank mumbles between his fingers.

“Jet’s said he’s going for some target practice later today, he suggested you join him… I think that would be good,” Gerard says conversationally. Frank cringes inwardly because the last thing he needs is to be around people firing guns. Or handling guns. Well, generally people with guns. Maybe he should re-train to be a ninja, they don’t use fucking guns, right? Are there ninjas in the desert?

“Yeah, Ghoul, Jet can fix your aim, he’s good at that,” Mikey chimes in from the other side of the room. Frank flinches, thinking that maybe Mikey’s onto him, but when he looks up to check Mikey’s face is blank as usual.

“I... um... yeah,” Frank answers. He’s finally willed his boner down. As long as Gerard doesn’t touch his gun again he’s golden.

“Cool, I’ll tell Jet,” Mikey says. This time Frank’s certain he can see him grin.

 

A few hours later Frank’s out in the desert with Ray. He’s blasted all of the cans Ray has set up for him, everything’s going well until Ray unhooks his gun to shoot a few targets himself. Frank concentrates on getting his aim right, on the target, on not looking at Ray, but it’s like a fucking car crash. You know it won’t do you any good to look, but you just can’t turn away.

It only takes a moment until Frank’s hard as a rock and missing shot after shot.

“Hey, what’s up? You were doing so well,” Ray says and walks over to Frank. “Here, let me show you…,” he adds conversationally and positions himself behind Frank, fingers resting on Frank’s hands as he corrects his aim.

“Try again,” he says. Frank pulls the trigger and the can flies off the rock.

“See, it’s easy, but I don’t think that’s your problem,” Ray says quietly. His breath is warm against the skin of Frank’s neck, his body a solid presence against Frank’s back. Frank is suddenly very aware of Ray’s fingers and the way they brush over Frank’s to click down the safety of the gun. He chokes down a moan when Ray slides his hand over the barrel, one long stroke up, a little curve at the top, a slow stroke down. Ray keeps moving, fingers loosely curled, up and down, up and down, and every stroke is going straight to Frank’s dick. 

“Jet…,” he moans and tilts his head back to rest against Ray’s shoulder, eyes closed, hips rocking forward all by themselves.

“Open your eyes, Ghoul,” Ray whispers and gently extracts the gun from Frank’s grip. Frank lets go easily, hands sinking down to his hips. His cock is trapped hard and swollen inside his jeans, he wants to reach down to adjust himself but somehow it doesn’t feel right to move. So he just stands there as Ray takes a step back and turns him around, gun pointed at Frank’s chest before he slides it down, slowly, over Frank’s stomach and lower until he’s tracing the bulge inside Frank’s jeans.

“So hard,” Ray murmurs and runs the gun over Frank’s cock with more force. Frank whimpers, clenching his hands into fists when Ray lets the gun travel up again to circle Frank’s nipples, graze over his neck, before he presses it against Frank’s temple.

“Down,” Ray orders. His voice is soft, but it’s a command, and Frank sinks to his knees with his hands clasped behind his back. If someone would seem them they’d think Ray was about to execute him, and even though Frank knows that the safety’s on, the image in his head makes a chill run down his spine that only adds to his arousal.

“Open.” The gun is pushed against Frank’s jaw and Frank doesn’t even think, just lets his mouth fall open.

Ray takes a step towards him, one hand in Frank’s hair, the other pushing the gun into his mouth. If the gun malfunctions, if anything’s wrong with the safety and Ray accidentally pulls the trigger, Frank’s dead. This is dangerous and he shouldn’t feel this calm, but his mind has gone blank, quiet, his whole being focussed on the gun sliding in and out of his mouth. 

“Fuck, Ghoul, you look so hot, I gotta…,” Ray gasps. He lets go of Frank’s hair but keeps the gun in Frank’s mouth while he one-handedly wrestles open the front of his trousers. The gun is replaced by Ray’s cock and Ray’s gripping Frank’s head with both hands, holding him steady while he fucks his mouth.

Frank doesn’t know how much time passes, minutes are liquid, his body’s dissolving, his mind is empty. He’s floating in space, anchored only by Ray’s hands in his hair and Ray’s cock in his mouth. There is nothing else for him to do than hold still and not choke. Ray’s hips stutter and he pushes in deeper, then something hot and sticky hits Frank’s tongue and slides down the back of his throat. He swallows instinctively, tasting salty and slightly bitter. Ray keeps him still for a few moments before he pulls out and lets go of Frank’s head. Frank watches Ray tuck himself back into his jeans and it’s only when Ray rasps, “Get yourself off”, that Frank realises he’s still hard. He fumbles with the fastening of his trousers, still kneeling, fingers stiff and uncoordinated, but he gets his cock out and starts jerking off in front of Ray. 

Orgasm hits him like a slap in the neck, so hard that Frank falls forward, bracing his fall with one hand, come spilling over his fingers and onto the dry, cracked desert floor. Ray’s there next to him, scooping him up, pulling him into a tight embrace, patting his head and muttering softly under his breath while he waits for Frank to come back to himself. It feels like Frank has to claw his way up from inside a deep, dark well, but finally he’s blinking into the bright desert light, cradled in Ray’s arms.

“So this…,” Frank starts. He’s still feeling a bit woozy, barely back inside his head.

“... is something you might want to get under control. Before you kill one of us. I really don’t want to die in friendly fire,” Ray finishes.

“How did you know?” Frank asks.

“It was really fucking obvious…,” Ray snorts, adding, “I mean, to me. And to Kobra. Poison hasn’t go a fucking clue.”

“Kobra knows?” Frank says, horrified.

“Yeah, Kobra knows. This… was his idea. Don’t worry, he won’t tell. Just... let one of us know if you need… you know... Kobra was pretty emphatic about not wanting to get shot by you. He used a lot of words. And _intonation_ ,” Ray answers.

“I’m sorry…,” Frank whispers. He’s got the feeling he’s been saying sorry an awful lot recently.

“No worries. You good to go or do you need a bit more time?” Ray asks.

“‘m good, we should probably head back,” Frank suggests. Ray gets up first, extending a hand to help Frank off the ground. He almost goes down again from the headrush but Ray catches him.

“Sorry…,” he mumbles, head down while he pulls up his jeans and straightens out his clothes.

“Stop fucking apologizing, Ghoul. It’s ok,” Ray scolds and Frank bites back the sorry that’s trying to spill over his lips.

 

They drive back in silence, both lost in thought, and it’s only when Ray pulls up to the diner that Frank feels a wave of panic settle in his stomach.

“He doesn’t know, Ghoul, and we’re not gonna tell,” Ray says softly, when Frank hesitates to get out of the car. 

Mikey and Gerard are in the main room of the diner when they walk in. Gerard’s cutting stencils out of cardboard they’ve salvaged and Mikey’s buried deep inside the guts of what might have once been a transistor.

“How’d go?” Gerard asks and Frank feels a blush creep up his face.

“Fine. We’ve fixed Ghoul’s aim, for now,” Ray answers and Frank blushes even deeper. Mikey doesn’t look up but Frank can see him smile.

“Good. Don’t want a repeat of our last fight,” Gerard answers.

“Won’t happen again, I promise,” Frank confirms. Mikey holds his thumb up over his head when Gerard’s turning his back.

“Cool,” Gerard mutters, already distracted by his project again, and Frank can’t help but wonder how someone who’s so concerned about _everything_ can be so fucking oblivious to what’s going on right in front of his eyes. 

 

A day later Frank’s outside, leaning against the wall of the diner, watching the sun slowly sink into the soft hills of the desert. He loves this brief period, when the blazing heat of the day is gone and the chill of the night hasn’t set in yet. Everything is coloured in a soft orange-pink glow, almost soft-focus, and it’s quiet, like the world is holding its breath and life is taking a break from the chaos. 

He’s lost in thought, which is why he jumps a little when the door to the diner clanks open and Mikey walks out. Mikey doesn’t say anything, just unhooks the gun from the holster on his side and sits down cross-legged next to where Frank is standing. The gun is resting on Mikey’s thigh, a splash of colour on dusty black, he’s not doing anything with it, doesn’t have to. They both know that Frank’s aware it’s there. Frank can’t help the shudder that runs through him when Mikey picks up the gun and runs his fingers over the barrel, casually, like he’s just checking the material. There’s no denying that it looks hot, it will always look hot, but this time Frank’s cock keeps its cool. Mikey slowly looks up to meet Frank’s eyes, then drags his gaze down to Frank’s crotch.

“I’m ok, Kobra,” Frank remarks. “Not gonna stroke out. Not unless you put that thing into my mouth.”

A quick smile flashes across Mikey’s face. “Gonna be interesting if the Dracs ever try to execute you…,” he muses.

“Don’t think it works that way, Kobra,” Frank says. He likes to think that he’d be more concerned about not dying than getting hard.

“At least you’d die happy…” Mikey continues, his voice the usual monotone, but there is laughter bubbling up beneath the surface. He barely manages to get out, “They’d have to wipe more than the Drac’s memory once they’re done with you”, before he’s cracking up for real.

“Fuck, Kobra, stop it,” Frank says, but the thought’s just too ridiculous and Mikey’s laugh, rare as they get to hear it, is infectious. It feels good to laugh, even if it’s at his expense, and it takes them a good few minutes to calm down again. 

They watch the sun set in amiable silence, staying outside until the sun is gone and the cold starts to creep in.

“We should…,” Mikey says and cocks his head towards the diner.

“Yeah,” Frank agrees.

“You sure you’re…,” Mikey is cocking his head again, this time towards the middle of Frank’s body. 

“Yeah,” Frank confirms. It’s not a lie, even if Frank can’t be certain. But he’s got Ray, and he’s got Mikey, and maybe Gerard. If he plucks up the courage to tell him. 

But that can wait for a little bit longer.


End file.
